


die, dying, dead.

by howlingautumn (orphan_account)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 05:24:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4209576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/howlingautumn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is quite strange dying, he thinks, again. And oh, in the snow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	die, dying, dead.

**Author's Note:**

> Ouch, this one hurt. Fairly short, but still. Read and review, as you wish.

Dying is very strange indeed, Jon Snow thinks, vaguely, while the snow seeps into his dark clothes and mixes with his on fire blood. It is quite strange dying, he thinks. And oh, in the snow. Even when his men's footfalls fade he still thinks he can hear them, tiptoeing ever closer, betraying him once more with their eerie sympathy. So, if his last thoughts shall be paraded as such, he ought to remember the first time someone, (in his ever fading memory), wanted him dead. 

**i. die**

Lady Stark hates him, this much he knows to be true. And he does not try to make her hate him anymore than she already does, he does not stay in her sight for too long, or breathe too loudly in her general direction, or even make a show of himself to garner attention from her husband, Father, his father. So, when she calls all of her children into an open and public solar for a meeting of sorts, Jon tries to make himself scarce, even if the new servants misunderstand and try to make him attend. The subject of his birth must have not reached their ears yet, and he can't help but hope that it never does. The meeting concludes quickly and as his half-siblings file out, he closes his eyes and tries to follow suit, unobtrusively. And, again he presses himself against the wall and braces himself for the glare. It does come, though not when he expects it, it comes with a sharp pain to his arm as Catelyn Tully Stark squeezes tightly and fairly hisses, "Jon  _Snow_ , you realize it would be better for all of us if you would just  **die**." 

Jon is eight years old, then, and he does not grant her a single wince, nor tear, nor word. It is his own bitter victory, rotting upon his tongue. When she does let him go, quickly, as if he is too dirty for her to even touch, he turns swiftly and retreats to the solace of his room. There, in the cold, he weeps for what could have been, the happiness dancing along the edges of his mind, still much to far away to grasp. 

**ii. dying**

The maester lays a cool rag upon his forehead and in that moment Jon Snow can believe that he is dying. Thankfully, he is not, but it does feel terribly bad. He wishes that the rag could suddenly transform into a cool hand instead. A hand that could run fingers through his curls and massage into his pounding scalp. No matter how hard he wishes though, he is still alone. The dreams are the worst part. Not the pain. The dreams. They run rampant, springing into life inside his sickchamber, becoming far too real for anyone to handle. The dragons curl around his spine when he turns, all the most beautiful colors of the rainbow, they present him gifts, and their fire drenches Winterfell and leaves him unscathed. The wolves howl, run, and laugh, the pack spinning faster and faster and faster until only one remains, a dark direwolf, curling at his feet and singing a lullaby.

_The winds will howl and the cities burn_

_The moon will cease it's shine_

_But when you wake your sleepy head_

_You will be forever mine_

 He sobs into his pillow, begging for them to stop, and they do, the room becomes quiet, a hush settling over him until he lifts his head from the bed. 

A girl sits in the chair, long silver blonde hair thrown back over one shoulder, observing him with one regal eyebrow arched. "Hello," she says in a light voice, a comforting voice, "I see that you are dreadfully sick, may I help?" Jon cannot say a word, his voice caught in his throat, his eyes blazing lavender darkness, though he will ignore that fact in the mirror later, citing sickness. He only nods, once, before she hops from her seat and presses cool lips to skin, "Calm your fire, my Prince, you will need it for the days to come."

When he wakes hours later, she is gone. 

**iii. dead**

The snow is as red as anything he has ever seen, when he raises a weak hand up to his eyes. It is not kissed by fire, but deep and dark and foreboding. He cannot say he is frightened, for fear is an ugly thing to waste your last moments on, but he is . . . he is . . . 

 

 

A gentle hand waits upon his chest, "Welcome back, nephew," the voice says. 

Jon Targaryen, First of His Name, Azor Ahai, The Prince That Was Promised, opens his eyes to the light. 


End file.
